


By This Soft Stream

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Omega Sylvain, Omega Verse, Rare Pairings, frothing, that’s like snowballing but with milk baeby!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: “Seteth coughs brusquely, but his eyes are serious and his voice measured. “Your body has been thrust into a condition where it believes you are with child.”Sylvain wheezes with all the strength he has left. Of fucking course. Of course it does. Of course this would happen now.”
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Seteth
Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728082
Comments: 11
Kudos: 87
Collections: Omega Sylvain Week





	By This Soft Stream

**Author's Note:**

> Omega Sylvain Week Day 4 - prompt: milk

If there was one thing Sylvain had learned this year at Garreg Mach, it was that the Monastery was neither a peaceful place nor a private one. From the very first day, he had been monitoring its security— pressing his luck whenever he could. He led curious passersby to the not quite tucked away corners of the courtyard by hushed gasps interrupting the smacking of lips. Teatime with a different woman every morning occurred at the same table, right by the path he knew his Professor took on the way to the dining hall. He allowed certain staff to observe him sneaking out well after sunset to the tavern for a drink and a quick fuck, encouraging the rumors of his skirt chasing to spread. See, there was a secret he needed to keep in a place that was already full of them, and the easiest way to do that was to tempt wandering eyes into a half-lie.

Sylvain was an Omega. He’d presented as so a few months before his eighteenth birthday, and keeping that information to himself changed from an inconvenience to a full time job as soon as he’d entered the Academy. Despite Lady Rhea’s careful rooming arrangement by status and secondary gender alongside her insistence of propriety, whenever somebody was due for their rut or heat, somehow, everybody knew about it by sundown. There were separate chambers for their cycles and enough safety measures in place, so the most embarrassing event a student experienced to Sylvain’s knowledge is what was jokingly referred to as “the walk of shame”— needing to be escorted there by one of the Knights of Seiros. Most of them avoided that by waiting until it was late enough to slip on a cloak and slink over to the other houses as silently as they could. 

Sylvain didn’t know what those arrangements were like, and if his luck continued, he never would. 

So far, he had successfully disguised himself as a Beta. Back in Gautier, his parents openly disapproved of his courting habits, but they did little in reality to stop him, and his personal space was still respected. He’s lucky to have gathered enough experience in his flings with Omegas to notice the signs,  _ and _ to be able to find the suppressants he needed before his heat hit. There’s no doubt in his mind that his father would come up with a very different method of planning for crest babies if he knew.

He’d have to figure something else out after he graduated. These weren’t created for long term use; his body was already beginning to reflect that unfortunate truth. It blocked his pheromones just enough that it wouldn’t give himself away, but the side effects of the hormones were…more than a little uncomfortable. 

Instead of the usual four to seven days of sweltering intoxication he’d helped his maidens through before, Sylvain experienced a low, constant simmering that worsened during the night and the days right before his heat was supposed to come. His body overreacted to any touch, no matter how innocent. The wind made him twitch like it was a lover’s tongue. Exchanging blows during training sessions became akin to torture. Sitting through an entire class squirming, trying to find a position that wouldn’t agitate his nerves while also hiding an erection, was worse than he remembers it being in puberty. As he grew closer to his mock heat, he even had to excuse himself early from dinner, afraid that he would leave slick behind on the bench. He’s lived through his teenage years already; he’s no stranger to being horny, but this was getting to be a little over the top.

Just as he did during any other mock heat, when the suppressants began to wear off at the end of the day, he barricaded himself in his room and allowed everyone to think he’d taken an Omega to bed. He made more than enough noises when he fucked himself through the height of it that Dimitri could spread the news through his complaints. Sylvain didn’t have to pretend too much to be offended— common courtesy assumes you know to leave a guy alone when he’s entertaining a lady, after all. 

Tonight though, he was too wound up in a way that he couldn’t relieve by himself. His body ached from both Byleth’s new training regimen and the sudden increase in sensitivity. His mock heats were becoming more frequent and he was afraid that soon he’d be hit with the real thing.

His chest was giving him the most trouble lately. Sylvain noticed the swelling after they returned from Zanado. He hadn’t really worried about it until a few moons later when he started waking up with wet spots on the front of his nightclothes. He tried to keep his shirts as loose and open as possible—another topic for the rumor mill— but direct contact didn’t seem to matter anymore. The milk was determined to leak out. 

Now it was becoming unbearable. He’d tried massaging by himself, but after a few squishes and pinches, it usually became too painful to continue. He was forced to let them be, walking around casually like his chest wasn’t constantly on the verge of spurting a creamy mess everywhere. 

This past week it had gotten so bad that he had to return to his bedroom twice during the day to change shirts. The amount of fake reasons he had to come up with in order to excuse himself was bordering on embarrassing. This shouldn’t even be happening to him; he wasn’t pregnant or even in heat— so why did the twinge that shot through his body when he reached up to cup at his chest and pinch a nipple cause his cock to throb? 

It wasn’t a rare night for Sylvain to be caught with his hands down his pants, but it was rare to discover him alone, lost in his thoughts, and that is the state Flayn found him in. The winds were howling their best impression of wolves against the window he was gazing mindlessly through when he was knocked straight out of his fantasies by three firm taps at his door.

Sylvain jumped, pulling his hands free and slicking his hair back like he usually does when he’s anxious, not even thinking about the mess he was pushing through his bangs. 

If Flayn noticed anything, she said nothing. Her fluorescent green head bobbed forward immediately as he answered. Her cheeks were red and curls windswept, but that’s all he had time to observe before she shoved a crumpled letter into his hand and swiftly turned to go with one of those overly polite, archaic farewells that only left him further intrigued.

He shut the door again and returned to his desk by the window, maneuvering a candle in search of a paper knife. As soon as he’d sliced through the seal, he pushed the glass dome open and pulled up a chair, tearing at the buttons of his shirt so the frigid breeze could soothe the heat and itch across his chest. The Wyvern moon always came as a great relief to Sylvain with how rapidly the weather cooled, but this year relief was something that seemed almost impossible to find.

He hadn’t been able to rest at all in the past few months, not with all the strange things happening here, one after the other. Going from having to clean up his brother’s mess one last time straight into Flayn’s kidnapping and the reappearance of the Death Knight really killed his mood. 

A letter from Seteth wasn’t exactly the morale boost he needed right now, but there wasn’t anything else here to distract him, and he was pretty curious as to what would be so important that he’d risk sending Flayn out on her own so close to the dead of night this soon after they’d rescued her. He’d never received anything that seemed so urgent from the killjoy before.

_ Sylvain, _

_ I apologize for the abrupt nature of this letter. Something of great importance has been brought to my attention that I would like to discuss with you. Before I continue, I want to assure you that it is not my intention for this letter to frighten you or to imply that you will be disciplined— that is not the purpose of our meeting. However, I felt it wiser to send this with Flayn, who I trust implicitly, than to risk my invitation overheard before we are behind the safety of my office doors. If I do not receive an answer either by letter or by person, I will have no choice but to find you. I hope this situation need not arise.  _

_ I await your response by tomorrow’s twilight. _

_ Advisor to the Archbishop, Seteth  _

_ Huh.  _ Well, that’s… unexpected. He’d had a few awkward conversations with the man before, one time when he convinced a commoner to skip class to make out with him in the Goddess Tower and another when he was on his way back from choir practice, of all things. He’d kept his hands, and his mouth, (mostly) to himself since then though, so he had no idea what this could be about. 

The burn in his chest flares when a particularly harsh wind rips into his exposed skin. Sylvain leaps from his chair, shutting the window as quickly as he can before sinking back down into it. He winces while he gathers the liquid beading from his nipples and rubs it in circles, hoping the lubrication will at least help warm them up. A breathy moan catches in his throat as more milk comes out in dribbles and he rushes to catch it in his hands. 

Heavy pants blanket the air now. Sylvain stops to study the unusual wetness coating his fingers and raises his hips in a response to how good it just felt to ease some of the pressure that’s been begging for his attention all day. His cock is already straining to be touched, so he frees it with that same hand; any other thoughts turn white and fuzzy once those dampened fingers are stroking the milk and precum together along his shaft. Sylvain bites down hard on his lip to stifle the sound. This was something he didn’t want Dimitri to hear, for once. It was too private— too good to share. 

With one hand milking his chest and another working his cock the letter falls to the floor— as forgotten as every other commitment. Relief was all he sought now. Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow. 

* * *

Tomorrow was worse. Sylvain awoke, twice as sore and with a thoroughly soaked sheet clinging to his bare chest. He lay there for a few minutes, just breathing and running his hand up and down the wet cloth. Every time his fingers drifted close to his chest it made him groan in anticipation. He felt fuller than he was last night. So full that he was honestly hesitant to get up and find out.

He pulls the sheet down and presses the pads of his index fingers to his nipples as gently as he can, circling it a few times like before and hissing at the mixed bag of emotions from the stimulation. Sylvain increases the pressure, breathing shakily and arching a little as the milk drips down beyond the webbing of his hands. This was getting to be too much. It was starting to become too simple to turn him on. The sheet still covering him below his torso was tented, but instead of reaching down to take care of it, all he could think about was kneading everything out, the weight of stones slowly leaving him and milk streaming down the sides of his bellowing ribs. 

Gingerly, he places a hand around the swollen flesh and squeezes. The drip becomes a little squirt that lands further down his stomach. Sylvain’s lips part a little in shock and in pleasure, eyes becoming hazy at the sight of the warm liquid slipping into his navel where the roaring fire of arousal already pools.

“ _ Fuck _ .” He whispers. He can’t remember the last time he felt so exhilarated. His heart pounds away in his waterlogged ears. Slick stains his inner thighs and bedsheets, bubbling at his hole as he continues the cycle of gentle tugging and squeezing. Crying and writhing like a virgin in the throes of heat, he tangles himself further into the covers, smearing milk across the expanse of his body until he comes, dry and only somewhat sated— unable to figure out how to fully satisfy his needs.

Yeah, this was a problem. He never wanted to leave his bed again.

He does, of course, smoothing out two shirts, giddy with expectation. He sits in a stupor throughout most of the day, dreaming of reaching inside his jacket and under his shirt to give himself a pinch, doing his best to ignore the ache— his cock stirring with the sensation of his chest filling up again. He returns to his room to change his shirt once before lunch and again after a late afternoon sparring session with Felix, who noted his erection with a resigned disgust and sent him away early to take care of it. At least that came as no surprise. Felix has seen more of his body than the rest of his friends and would only roll his eyes at his arousal, citing it as another one of Sylvain’s weaknesses. 

Thankfully, his clothes were already soaked through with sweat. His dick hardening was one thing, but Sylvain doesn’t know how Felix would react to his beading chest or how he’d go about explaining it. 

He relieves himself as much as he can in the baths, one eye trained on the door, the other entranced by the cloudy drops that integrate as they hit the water. It was a fascinating sight and Sylvain thrived off risky behavior. The thought of someone walking in to see him—florid and misty-eyed, ivory tinged dewdrops littering his skin from the waist up—was an exhilaration that only quickened his pulse alongside his actions. It doesn’t take long before he comes again, cock still untouched and faster than before, further soiling the area. 

It’s only when he’s finished cleaning up after himself and on his way to his room that he remembers the letter.

The sun is already low in the sky, shrouding the greenhouse with its orange shadows. Sylvain freezes, calculating how long it would take him to get to Seteth’s office as he frowns at the ground. There were a few complications he didn’t really want to deal with right now.

The heat that had been mostly confined to his chest and his gut was spreading. It was no longer a simmer; this was enough to make him really sweat. His knees felt weak and nothing sounded better to him than to give into the urge to strip and lay down in the comfort of his own bed. There was a sweet scent in the air that he recognized as his own pheromones, finally strong enough to be picked up on. He couldn’t let anyone find him like this. 

He didn’t doubt that Seteth would come to his door seeking conversation. The thought of being disturbed there as soon as he gave in to his cravings made Sylvain just as upset as the previous prospect. He should get it out of the way and visit him now; he could spare a few minutes, come up with a good enough excuse as to why this wasn’t the best time, and push whatever it is that had Seteth so determined to talk to him tomorrow, when the suppressants worked their favor on him again.

So, Sylvain goes, swift as he can manage, avoiding as many people as possible and only stopping once to steady himself against the pillars of the abandoned Knight’s Hall. Dizziness wasn’t a good sign. It was hard to tell how much more he could handle; he hadn’t pushed himself beyond this point before. He slaps a hand to his forehead, tightening his lips at the burn. Worry drags his focus so far from reality that he nearly bumps into the very person he’s looking for as he turns the corner. 

Sylvain blinks in flashes of green, backing away with his hands up just in case of aggression. His stomach rights itself in a relieved sigh when Seteth also retreats, allowing him the space to catch his breath.

The circlet of gold gleams enchantingly in the last rays of the sunset streaming through the open hall. Seteth’s eyes are heavy with concern—that’s not unusual— but now, they pierce Sylvain in a different fashion. Sylvain swallows thickly. A little slick leaks out into his pants that he’s too light headed to pay attention to. It doesn’t matter. Not when his tits are already hard again and Seteth is staring at them with a knowing look— practiced, and a little hungry.

“Sylvain,” He begins, without a hint of delay. His body is already half turned toward the stairs. “A moment in my office, if you will.” 

Just a moment. Sure. That’s just about all he has left.

Sylvain nearly tumbles through the door, eternally grateful when Seteth offers him a chair to sit down in. He pretends to study his surroundings, pulling at the loose strings of his pants, trying not to be intimidated by all of the overwhelming feelings and surplus of new smells. 

“Thank you for agreeing to come here to speak with me.” Seteth begins, unperturbed by Sylvain’s poor attempt of concentration. “Although, I would have preferred you to have visited me a bit earlier; I was beginning to become concerned I would have to search a while to find you— unsure of the state you would be in when I did.” 

Sylvain’s brows furrow, moving the sweat down to the side of his nose. He shifts his head and tries to focus on Seteth; the dregs of sunshine blurring the shadows that dance across the Advisor’s face are unhelpful at best. He’s becoming more confused the longer he stares without saying anything, drawn away from the desire to say what Seteth wants to hear so that he can leave. Instead, the urge to stay and beg Seteth to help him chases most of the remaining reason far from his mind.

He’s closer to a genuine heat than he thought— more affected by the atmosphere than he should be. His body buzzes over the prospect of attention from a mate, perky nipples staining the shirt he’d just changed into. Sylvain’s breathing accelerates as he casually tries to readjust his body to accommodate all of the reactions of his arousal. Milk sticks to his skin, pooling in the crevasses he creates by the slight twisting and bending.

Seteth smells like warm apple cider and fresh parchment. Sylvain has no idea what his dynamic is—he almost seemed to be in a category of his own, crazy as it sounds— but it doesn’t matter. 

All he wants at this moment is for Seteth to touch him. 

“Well… it is perhaps not the most virtuous route, but it is rather sensible.”

Sylvain’s cheeks flush when he realizes he’s spoken the thought aloud. Even more so when Seteth rises, walking slowly around the desk to stand at his side. A cool hand is placed on his forehead, pushing his bangs away.

“You have some idea as to what is happening now, I hope. Whatever it is that you have been using to conceal your status and delay your heat is now revealing the consequences. I should accompany you to the infirmary so that Manuela can examine your body and prescribe herbs to alleviate your symptoms. That would be wise.” 

The hand falls to his shoulder. Sylvain leans back, rolling his face to the side of his neck to rest against the arch of his fingers. His next breath catches in his throat at the glow of swaying verdant leaves in the Advisor’s softened gaze. 

“However, if you wish to deal with this in a more private manner, I would be happy to assist you to the best of my ability.” 

Sylvain loses track of how much time it takes him to answer. All he knows is that by the time he does, Seteth has moved closer, squatting to examine him further, and the fact that they now share the same air is enough to bring his rattled brain back into commission. 

_ “Hah. _ ” He exhales, weaker than he meant to break the silence. “Guess you figured me out— I’m impressed.”

Seteth encourages him to sit more upright, nodding his approval at Sylvain’s increased alertness. “I did. Although, I don’t want you to worry about others perceiving the truth. I have simply experienced this uncommon situation enough times to recognize it.”

Sylvain breathes a few times more, working as hard as he can to ignore everything in his body that  _ screamed  _ at him to lean forward and close the gap between their faces. “Yeah, my tits are pretty sore. Sorry, that probably sounds too crass. I forgot who I was talking to for a moment.” He hadn’t forgotten, Seteth was occupying about 97% of his current thoughts and he was probably being so obvious about it that he knew. “I don’t remember seeing this in other Omegas...”

Bracing a hand on the side of his chair, Sylvain pushes himself to his feet and immediately swoons. Seteth’s arms are there to support him by the following second. The extended contact sends pulses of want throughout his body. His nose fills with the rich undertones of  _ cinnamon, apples, cloves, a touch of owl feathers dipped in expensive ink...  _ Sylvain closes his eyes, steeping in the security. He grabs the front of Seteth’s gilded shirt and  _ whines.  _

He doesn’t have the time or the sense to process how Seteth’s heart speeds a little to closer match his before he’s given another task. “Sylvain. Lean on me, please, and listen to what I have to say.” 

He does, shaking his head a little trying to wash his mind free of the images of what he’d rather be doing with Seteth. There’s nothing he can do about his body anymore. It’s too telling even if Seteth didn’t already seem to know everything, so he stands as straight as he can and doesn’t flinch when it causes him to drag both his erection and the wet spots on his shirt against him. 

Seteth coughs brusquely, but his eyes are serious and his voice measured. “Your body has been thrust into a condition where it believes you are with child.” 

Sylvain wheezes with all the strength he has left. Of fucking course. Of course it does. Of course this would happen now. 

“That explains it.” He chuckles dryly, but there is no real humor left to spare, because every cell is currently busy straining not to give in and press fully against the warm body that he knows could help him. It’s stupid, because Seteth said he’d would and Sylvain has jumped at that opportunity in situations where he was far less desperate than this. He didn’t understand where the hesitation came from.

Guilt maybe. There was always plenty of that. Or embarrassment. Either way, Sylvain wanted to hear Seteth offer again. In a less detached manner this time. 

He licks his lips, pulling himself a little higher until he’s looking Seteth dead on. Good thing he was a few inches taller. He doesn’t know if he could sustain the position without keeping his knees a little bent. 

“So, since you said you already have experience with this… you’re the expert here. What can I do about it?” 

Seteth’s nose tips forward and nearly brushes against Sylvain’s, causing his breath to hitch.  _ Oh _ . Well that was quick. 

He doesn’t kiss him. He waits too long to even speak, obviously quarreling with some kind of promise he made to the Goddess or something. Sylvain becomes even more impatient. Everything aches worse than he’d imagined it would and he was pretty sure he’d either pass out or bust in his pants any second now. Both seemed like a solid bet.

Seteth indicates to his chair behind the desk. “As long as I have your permission—come sit with me—and I will show you.” 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” Sylvain is barely able to push the short vibration past his tongue, following him with all of the grace of a newborn lamb. “I was gonna say something like that.” 

Sylvain slinks into his lap as soon as he’s able, resting their foreheads together while his body rediscovers the function of air navigating lungs. Seteth holds his hips steady, and Sylvain is just able to catch a glimpse of a subtle blaze in his eyes for a moment before he gives into instinct— falling forward to claim his mouth.

The response is immediate and the relief it carries has Sylvain shaking and rocking in no time. Seteth tips his face to the side and opens him more authentically with a gentle nudge than he’d accomplished in several years of personal practice— massaging their tongues with more skill than he’d known to prepare for. It glides across lips and teeth and uncharted corners of pleasure, drawing high, honest noises from Sylvain’s throat that he didn’t know he was capable of creating. Seteth’s fingers weave through the thick, scarlet silk of his hair down the sides of his face and into his neck, searching his skin like there is no greater treasure and—  _ oh.  _ Is it just the hormones leading him into this euphoria or has he truly never kissed like this before? 

Regardless of the answer, Sylvain surrenders to it. His hands hook into the arches of Seteth’s shoulders; everything else in his body falls pliant. His mouth drops open and Seteth detaches to leave kisses from the edge of it down into his jaw.

“Please... _ hah _ ...don’t stop— showing me...” Sylvain shivers and rolls his hips—once, twice—nails digging into the planes of his back. He’s warm and damp in so many places, ready for Seteth to do...he doesn’t know. Something. Anything.  _ More _ .

Seteth hums determinedly, and presses a thumb against the gland on his neck, stroking it. The other hand drags down into Sylvain’s chest, teasing at the sparse patch of red there. Their mouths connect again, exchanging waves of approval that travel deep into his bones. The succession of contact and vibration sends Sylvain into overdrive.

He interrupts their kiss with a shaky moan, thighs tensing around the side of Seteth’s torso. He wasn’t even aware of how close he’d gotten, but now that there was a lull in their union there was new information to catch his attention.

His shirt was damp again with a combination of sweat and milk— beginning to cling to his frame. His chest was a little less sensitive now that it’d begun flowing freely. For once, it wasn’t as important as another element. 

Seteth’s cock is stiff below him and only a few inches away from rubbing right where he wanted it. Sylvain shifts to rut back against it, keening at all the new sensations it brought. His body works separate from his mind, trying to maneuver it into his hole, regardless of the fact that they are both still clothed. Frustrated whimpers break into ragged breathing into uneven tremors.

Seteth’s hands grasp his forearms, stopping him cold. “Wait. Before we continue, I want to discuss what I plan to do to alleviate your symptoms.”

Sylvain protests vocally, but he does stop. He’s hardly tracking the context of what Seteth is saying, more so going off the tone of his voice and body language. The Advisor attempts to soothe him by tracing the outline of his body with the pressure of his fingers.

“In order for me to continue, I need your cooperation on two factors. First, I ask that you be frank with me. Be honest about how you are feeling when I am touching you and tell me if and when you would like me to stop. Second, you must relax and allow me to lead. I know it is difficult, but if you can accomplish the first, the second should come at very little additional effort.”

Seteth’s eyes are the warmest Sylvain has ever seen them. It’s dark now, and they shine like a lighthouse in absence of any other source. Sylvain whispers some form of agreement. He doesn’t remember what, because the burn of his chest is no longer contained to the swelling— the heartbeat that hammers from underneath the slabs is just as concerning and real as the rest of his pains.

Seteth’s thumb leaves his gland and Sylvain restrains the loss of a breath with its going. His hands now work Sylvain’s undershirt open, taking the time to reassure him with soft strokes to accompany the words of praise and further instruction.

“I will begin by starting at the edge of your chest, then I will move inward as gently as I can. Tell me if there is an area that requires more attention and if you would like me to decrease or increase the pressure.” 

Sylvain nods, then hisses as Seteth places both of his thumbs high to the side of each breast, lightly pressing the pads in at the apex. Seteth pauses, studying his face and Sylvain smiles back, placing his hands over Seteth’s—breathing deep—searching for the well of intimacy inside of him left untouched since childhood— scaling the walls. 

“It’s fine.” He sounds steadier than he feels, but maybe it’s that he needs to lose everything he’s holding onto in order to gain what he’s really looking for. “Keep going.”

Seteth does. He starts with his index and middle finger, moving in incomplete circles using his thumb as a grounding point, pressing a little harder upon request. Sylvain breathes shallowly through the pain, wincing as the weight moves toward his nipples and comes closer to release. The slow, steady leaking begins to give way to small spurts. Tears take over vision at the corners of his eyes so he shuts them, ready to beg for this devotion to continue forever. He has never felt so high in his life. 

“Feels good— feels so good,  _ Seteth— _ please give me more.” 

Seteth kisses his cheek and complies, easing the strain. The fingers move methodically, pressing and pulling from the tips of sore muscles to the oversensitive bumps surrounding his dampened buds, then returning to complete the process once more. Sylvain sobs, trying to remain still when all he wants to do is reach down and push Seteth’s hands harder against his tits, filling the cups of his palms with all of the milk that has burdened him during these long months. 

He chances opening his eyes again instead, blinking moisture away before he dares to look down at the activity burning through layers of skin to meld the Advisor’s blood to his. The flow is more meager in reality than it feels, but it’s constant, staining their pants now that his shirt has absorbed enough to drip also. 

The creamy liquid spreads between their bodies, sometimes surprising them with a larger squirt to deepen the dark spots on Seteth’s smooth, sapphire fabric— streaming past his palms into the cuffs of the needlessly extravagant clothes. Seteth stares at the sources of saturation with something much deeper than virtuous determination. Sylvain’s stomach drops into the depths of starvation. He wants Seteth to ruin the rest of him in the same way— leave him beyond repair. 

Now that he’s more settled into the repetition, Sylvain can readjust to other sensations. Seteth’s moaning, a sound resembling more of a sigh between the palette of their combined breathing patterns, is a beautiful revelation that causes the forgotten heat in Sylvain’s gut to coil tighter. Sylvain is suddenly filled with confidence at the understanding that Seteth finds this aspect of his body attractive— that he’s enjoying this just as much as he is. He feels filthy, and the urge to egg Seteth on to even further pleasure takes precedence.

Sylvain arches back with a smirk, rubbing Seteth’s thighs. He slowly moves his hips forward until their cocks are brushing against one another again, his movement matching the speed of each word. “You...You like this? Me— on top of you right now? You like my wet tits leaking for you, overflowing into your hands?”

“I do.” Seteth’s voice is a  _ little _ strained, his cock  _ undeniably _ straining, but he continues without any other change, as honest as ever. “I never said I wouldn’t also benefit from assisting you.” 

Sylvain shivers, goosebumps chasing the stiff hairs of his forearms. “Put your mouth on me. Seteth,  _ please _ .”

Seteth’s breath dies. His fingers falter, squeezing a little harder even though Sylvain hadn’t asked for the difference. It’s one of the more underwhelming reactions Sylvain has received from a lover, but Seteth has always regarded him in such a solemn manner, so he couldn't be more  _ pleased _ to experience a break in that character.

Seteth is quiet— hardly audible though his lips are close enough to leave puffs of air by Sylvain’s chin. “It will feel more intensive than my hands.” Neither of them mention how they are trembling. “It may be overwhelming. Are you certain?”

Sylvain nods, unbuttoning his pants, immediately spreading the string of precome along his shaft. Any reservations that may have once existed are now shattered. “I want you to—” he swallows, but there’s little moisture left in his mouth to give his throat the remedy it needs. “Want you to taste me.” 

Seteth sighs, removing his hands so that he can finish unbuttoning the rest of Sylvain’s shirt. He runs his fingers over Sylvain’s bare abdomen, pausing at the hairs just above his groin. Sylvain’s strokes pick up with his breathing, so he almost doesn’t catch the next question Seteth asks. 

“Would you like me to touch you while I use my mouth on you?” 

Sylvain thumbs slowly at his cockhead, humming, trying to push his impending orgasm as far away as he can. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t last if Seteth were to do both, and he wants to. He also wants to make sure Seteth comes. 

“No.” He lets go, momentarily, putting his hands on where he assumes Seteth’s pants disconnect from his shirt. Sylvain doesn’t know how he manages to gather enough air to ask for what he really desires, but he does. 

“Can I touch you instead?”

Seteth’s hands still on Sylvain’s jacket, haphazardly hanging half-off his shoulders. Sylvain waits for some kind of response from him or for his breath to return— whichever comes first. 

“This is no longer just about relieving your symptoms, Sylvain— is it?” 

Seteth completes his original intention of removing Sylvain’s jacket and works off his shirt next. It’s trickier and requires more of his attention to get the sticky fabric to cooperate. Under Seteth’s careful ministrations, Sylvain is emboldened again. 

“It’s not.” He agrees. “Will you let me anyway?”

The cool night air makes him shiver with relief as Seteth finally frees him from the heavy constraints of his drenched clothing. Seteth runs his fingers over Sylvain’s nipples once more with a renewed vigor, pinching them lightly and rubbing the pearly liquid between Sylvain’s hands when he takes them, dragging them down to the golden belt of his own waist— unclicking well concealed clasps. 

“I will.” 

Sylvain delves deep, moaning when his cool hand reaches the warmth of Seteth’s cock. Seteth winces at the temperature difference, but before Sylvain can do anything, the Advisor’s tongue is on his chest and there is nothing in his extensive range of emotions that can prepare a proper reaction. 

A whine is what he settles on— longer and higher and more impetuous than any other noise he’s given tonight. The lightest, warmest pressure cleans him, and it doesn’t stop at his nipples— Seteth laves his tongue across his chest and over his ribs, lifting him up and bending him backward so he can reach just above his hips, sucking marks into the areas he discovers make him squirm. By the time he returns to roll a nipple between his lips, Sylvain is a shuddering mess. 

He realizes that he hasn’t even stroked Seteth’s cock once yet when Seteth’s hand squeezes a few remaining drops of milk onto the head then wraps it around his, moving him up and down his shaft. 

“Sorry— got  _ ahh  _ little distracted.” Sylvain pants, searching for a rhythm that Seteth responds to and grinning when Seteth’s hips jut upward at the steady pumps. His reactionary cockiness costs him though, when Seteth leans forward to capture his nipple in his mouth again— and this time, it’s not to lap at the slow-beading buds. 

He sucks, and Sylvain breaks. Sylvain slumps over—shaking—laying his chin atop the crown of Seteth’s head. The firm pressure of Seteth’s lips draws an incredible lightness of being from him. The sounds of Seteth smacking and swallowing his milk are physical fires that enter through his ears to immediately consume all the spaces he wishes Seteth could invade. He noses back and forth, crying, focusing all that he has on continuing his strokes. His hips pick up, spreading slick on Seteth’s lap; the fabric of his pants have long since lost their function as a barrier. 

There’s not much left anymore, and the pain that plagued him is practically gone so he begs Seteth to suck harder, holding on for dear life as the Advisor switches back and forth between nipples on a surprisingly accurate instinct. Sylvain feels as if his lover is a wraith, draining his life force. All he sees and hears and feels is white. 

“Gonna come” and he is, really— untouched cock leaking more copiously over the edge of his pants than his nipples now. “Gonna come, Seteth.” He repeats, truly feeling like no matter how many times he says it, that Seteth couldn’t possibly understand just how overwhelming the approaching orgasm was. 

Seteth pops off his nipple to look up at him and Sylvain groans, captured by the wild state of his appearance. His usually immaculate hair is all mussed up with sweat and spit and milk, clumping together in places where it’s half dried. There are still a few streaks of milk spread high on his face and he’s breathing heavily through his nose, obviously savoring his most recent mouthful. Sylvain swears he’s never seen anything so hot. 

“Goddess, that’s hot.” He’s nothing if not straightforward about what turns him on, and right now he’s feeling just as drunk off of the milking as Seteth looked. “ _ Fuck,  _ give me a taste.” 

Seteth moans with surprise at the request, tight lipped for all the right reasons, refusing to spill even a drop of the precious liquid. Sylvain cradles Seteth’s face in his hands, bowing as Seteth meets him and opens his mouth— closing his eyes, holding his breath. 

It’s sweet, and thinner than he expected. Seteth positions his mouth over his and slowly lets the mixture of saliva and milk cascade. Sylvain immediately moves to swallow, drinking it down like it’s the only decent thing he consumed in days. Seteth’s tongue pushes the rest of the juices in suddenly and ties with his, moving to swirl the last of it around in his cheeks— chasing it when it finally runs to the back of Sylvain’s throat as if he could not bear to let the gift go.

Sylvain lets him—lets him squeeze his thoroughly worshipped tits—lets him invade the parched plains of his mouth until he spills over into his hand. He lets Seteth do all of these things before he finally unclenches and lets himself follow, filling Seteth’s lap, flinging his hips fully forward and clawing at Seteth’s back for a proper grip. The taste of Seteth still burns against the cool creaminess that lingers on the buds of his tongue. He sticks it out, panting, his ears ringing around some soothing words Seteth is speaking, low into the shell.

_ “Very good, Sylvain.” _ Is the clearest phase his dreamlike state can pick up, but the praise is more than enough. He sighs happily, nudging his head against one of Seteth’s palms— beginning to purr. His eyes are heavy with the foreshadowing of sleep. He tries to communicate this with anxious groans, swaying against Seteth’s hold.

Seteth sticks to his convictions, however, and keeps him close. His voice sounds deeper still, so close to Sylvain’s ear while he’s so drowsy. “Your body is exhausted. Producing all of that milk has surely taken its toll. Rest, and I will look after you here until you are ready to work out a healthier, long term arrangement with Manuela.” 

Sylvain nods, nodding off, and then—because he has just enough brain activity to remember that this is yet another favor Seteth has promised him—he shakes himself awake enough to thank him. 

At least, he thinks he does. It’s too much effort to both turn his head and move his lips. The intention of the slurred syllables must reach Seteth, because he feels the Advisor’s cheeks pull back in a smile where they’re rested against his scalp.

“I wish to support you as much as I am able. Sleep now.”

With the Advisor’s arms wrapped protectively around his back, the cloying scent of slow baked apples, exotic spices, and milk luring him from where he’s pressed against Seteth’s chest— Sylvain does. He doesn’t see the sharp, wistful twist Seteth’s mouth takes or the subtle greed with which his fingers trace the top layer of his skin like it is the lining of his own heart, but he will, some day. Not the next, or even in the years that follow, but after the many battles to come have flickered their final flames— when they can truly say that they have found another tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


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